Opinion

Sometimes trying to solve a mystery can be for the birds

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Long ago during the throes of kiddom, I often found myself torn between desires of becoming an astronaut, third baseman for the Cubs, a lawyer or a detective.

Since I'm afraid of heights, can't hit a curveball and didn't care to spend half my life in law school, most of those aspirations rapidly waned.

Who knew 40 years later the Cubs would still need a third baseman? Or that floating in zero gravity with Sandra Bullock could be so much fun.

Journalism, of course, inevitably won out but secretly I've always harbored a fascination for putting clues together to solve a mystery.

After all, I just about always know who dunit right from the start on "Columbo." Or I'm honing in on the culprit even before the telltale doink-doink sounds on "Law and Order." And "CSI Miami"? I'm hot on the trail before David Caruso even whips off his sunglasses for the obligatory opening pun.

That's why I was so taken aback by the mystery I stumbled across returning home the other night -- all right, the other morning -- as I walked right through a houseful of clues while heading to bed.

Oh sure, my own Mr. Peabody (aka Chopper, the wonder Westie) appeared hot on the case, sniffing out the mystery. Should have realized he was onto something when he poked his cold nose under opposite corners of the old radio cabinet storing glassware in the dining room.

However, that action only worried me that I had another mouse. The last one was smarter than Mickey and trickier than Houdini but he finally met his Waterloo. Pausing to listen intently for any mouse-like noise, I heard nothing from beneath the cabinet and continued on through the house, shutting off all the lights behind me.

Fast forward to 9:30 the next morning. OK, so I slept in a little. You gotta do that sometimes. But as I slumbered away, strange things were happening in my home.

What I awakened to find was the hall lights turned on, not the ones just outside the bedroom door, but those that are never turned on in the adjoining foyer. My eyes widened and my heart skipped a beat. Somebody's been in here, I rationalized.

More evidence unfolded in the living room. A framed photo of granddaughter Macy in her Chicago Cubs' jersey clutching a Dora the Explorer Cub doll was on the floor, knocked to the carpet from atop a buffet cabinet in the corner.

Black and blue Bic pens that are routinely left atop the kitchen island overnight were unceremoniously dumped onto the laminate floor. Nearby a couple stacks of papers (imagine that in my house) were strewn about. Drops of what looked like milk or coffee creamer dotted the area in front of the fridge.

Someone's been in here, I thought again, nervously chiding myself with the proverbial, "What was your first clue, Dick Tracy?"

So do I call 911? Columbo? Goldilocks? Ghostbusters?

Honestly, I was waiting for Hitchcock to make his patented cameo when I began to spot other clues.

One of the glass doors on the fireplace was slightly ajar. An obvious smudge could be spotted at the bottom of one of the kitchen windows. And more of that milk or creamer seemed to be drizzled on the window sill.

Pondering all that from my easy chair, movement to the left of me caught my eye. Initially I thought it was one of the neighborhood squirrels going nuts on the deck outside. Then something appeared to nudge the sleeve of my leather jacket hanging off one of the kitchen chairs (Yes, mother, I know we have closets for that).

Springing from the recliner, I was just in time to spot a small wren hopping his way toward the utility room.

He had somehow flown down the chimney, wormed his way through the fireplace screen and out its glass doors to wreak havoc upon my living room, kitchen and dining room in an effort to flee the premises.

Those Coffeemate spots? Yea, they weren't creamer after all. Yuck! That window smudge? A desperate attempt for the little guy to find his way out. The light switch? Upon further review it appeared to be collateral damage from a misguided launch.

Opening the door to the garage, I watched a worn-out Christopher Wren hop out there but head to the cluttered corner among the rakes, dust mops, shovels and dusty Pachinko game.

Heading him off on the other side of the Jeep, I steered him toward the daylight and he hopped off into the bushes (insert bird-in-the-hand joke here), hopefully to recover and fly away to freedom.

Ah, another mystery solved. So now that I've got this detective thing licked, could law school be next?

Nah, that's still for the birds.